Acute Admiration
by Anexie
Summary: O'Hare receives instructions, and tries his very best to fulfil them to his utmost potential, no matter how obsecure the requests may be. O'Hareler. No romance - O'Hare basically thinks that his boss is the bee's knees.
1. Chapter 1

Written for Mary (oncelers-eyelashes . tumblr . com)  
- because of her wonderful headcanon (/post/53335357712/is-the-onceler-just-teasing-oha re -or-he-really-likes)

* * *

The phone was ringing.

Normally, O'Hare would have answered it in a blink, the device barely managing to bleat out more than a couple of rings; but at that moment he was having quite some difficulty with an unruly piece of office equipment, and found himself to be far too much in a state of frustration and pre-occupation to pick up the handset.

Gritting his teeth, he'd resorted to bashing his palm against the top of the stapler. This not only failed to make the damn thing serve it's purpose, but also made his palm turn an aggressive shade of red. O'Hare picked up the phone with his non-dominant hand, holding it stiffly to his ear as he tried to shake off the stinging sensation in his other hand.

'Hello-you-have-reached-Thneed-Inc-how-may-we-serv ice-you-today?'

The monologue had become as second nature to him as saying his own name. He prepared himself for the usual snooty tones of another company's secretary, or the rushed, hasty ones of a media journalist requesting interviews and photo shoots and God knows what else.

'Good morning, O'Hare.'

O'Hare coughed a little, from shock and a sudden onslaught of nervousness. He immediately ceased shaking his hand about, realising how it must look to anyone unknowing of his affliction.'Y-yes,' He cleared his throat. 'Mr Onceler.'

'Might I address the amount of time it took for you to pick up just now. I am sure that many other people who call this phone, as well as myself, do not want to be kept waiting. Do I make myself clear?'

The smooth voice and choice of words, although reprimanding, was hypnotic. 'I...yes, Mr Onceler. It won't happen again.'

'Now, I have a request of you.'

These words sent the smallest of shivers running down O'Hare's spine. The most powerful man in this area of the country wanted _his_ help. The clear emphasis on the 'you' was alluring to the young secretary. However mostly, O'Hare felt panic - fear of getting it wrong; not fulfilling whatever his boss was asking of him. The phone was shaking in his hand, so he swapped to the other, wincing at the cold plastic on the tender flesh. But he forced his voice to be calm. 'Yes, Mr Onceler? What can I do for you?'

O'Hare screwed up his eyes, immediately regretting voicing his last inquiry. He'd sounded too eager.

There was a sound of a soft chuckle through the earpiece, then the cool voice returned. 'In the downstairs storage room, in the filing cabinet 'A to G', under 'B', there is a folder of blueprints. Also, I have a small shipment due to arrive today, with the afternoon mail service. It is a box of imported cigars. Bring these to me in my office, with the blueprints, as soon as they are delivered.'

O'Hare blinked.

As if he could sense the other's bewilderment, Onceler spoke again. 'I drew up the blueprints some months ago, and stored them for future use. Well, the future is now-'  
O'Hare could hear him smiling through the phone at his own reference.  
'-and I'd like to look over them again. And I'm asking _you_-'  
Again, with the emphasis of the pronoun.  
'-because you are one of my most trusted employees.'

O'Hare couldn't help it; he broke into a broad grin at the compliment. His heart was skipping in his chest, and he could barely steady his breaths to speak. 'Yes, of course, Mr Onceler. I'd be happy to-'

And then the Onceler hung up on him. But the secretary didn't mind. He was feeling far too elated to let any small thing bring him down.

Everyone who worked for the Onceler knew of his short temper, about how he would not think twice about sending an employee packing. Usually with a lot of loud shouting and cursing. But... come to think of it, Onceler had never raised his voice to or become angry with O'Hare. He'd only ever been offhand with him, like when he'd hung up earlier. O'Hare thanked his lucky stars for this, because he didn't think he'd be able to keep it together if his boss ever lost it with him. It was hard enough trying to be cool and collected just when having a _conversation _with the person he aspired to be, never mind being _yelled_ at by him. O'Hare's hands clenched into fists just thinking about it.

* * *

The next few hours passed outrageously slowly for O'Hare. He'd been and fetched the blueprints in the ten minutes following the phone call with his boss, and they sat in the top drawer of his desk. He'd taken a new stapler whilst he was there, too, and could now perform his duties efficiently. But O'Hare was pinning too much anticipation on the Onceler's request for him, and no matter what he did, the minute hand on his watch didn't seem to move any faster.

Onceler had actually been out of his office a couple of times that day. O'Hare's desk was situated just along the hall from the room, so whenever the monogrammed doors opened, the secretary was always first to know. His boss rarely acknowledged him working, and this was true for today. But O'Hare viewed this as a positive thing, because it meant Onceler wouldn't notice the young man's eyes following his every move.

O'Hare knew he shouldn't watch the Onceler so... dedicatedly, but it wasn't like he had control of the matter. Most of the time he just could not bring his eyes away from the other's tall, lean form... the way he walked so straight-backed, like he owned the place (which was entirely acceptable, since he _did_) – it was more of a _stride_ than a walk, really... slender arms and fingers in vivid green gloves that never stopped moving, making little gestures as he spoke to people... and his hair always looked so _soft_ and _shiny_ and _perfect_, and his fringe bounced a little as he moved... and when O'Hare had been lucky enough to catch him _smiling_, it was perfect; even, white teeth bared by soft lips...

O'Hare shook his head to clear it. He looked at the small box in his left hand, and the large rolls of blue paper tucked under his right arm, and paused for a moment as he realised he wouldn't be able to knock on the Onceler's office doors. He didn't want to risk not doing so. Once, a young woman had been fired on the spot for entering without permission, despite her argument that she was balancing a box of product prototypes and a tray of drinks, thus having no free hand with which to knock. O'Hare had been unfortunate to see from his desk the girl running down the corridor, tears streaming.  
O'Hare had tiptoed around his boss for a couple of weeks after the incident, but the Onceler had remained civil and polite towards him, as always. Why was this?, he wondered as he stared at the golden plate bearing the businessman's name. Why did his boss, the renowned and terrible owner of Thneed Inc., not serve him contempt and dissatisfaction like he did to every other human to cross his path?

'Come in, O'Hare. You've been dawdling outside for far too long.'

The voice seemed to boom from within. The secretary looked up nervously - and unknowingly, right into the face of one of the cameras - before leaning against one of the doors with his back and turning into the room.

Whenever he'd been in the room before, the Onceler had always been seated in his chair with a ramrod straight spine, either tapping away at a computer or flourishing a pen across never-ending paperwork. This time, he was indeed sat in the outrageously tall chair. But what made O'Hare stare open mouthed was that his boss was _upside down_, his back curled up in the seat and pinstriped legs, crossed at the ankles, climbing up the red quilted back of the chair. His gloved hands were resting on his chest, fingers interlinked. The Onceler's head was dangling over the edge of the seat, but in a fashion that his nose and eyes were below the level of his desk. All that O'Hare could see from his position was the Onceler's mouth and chin, which moved suddenly as he spoke.

'Do you have the cigars?'

Still in a state of perplexity, it took the young secretary a moment to decipher the question and form a suitable reply. Hurrying forward, he plonked the items on the top of the office desk. 'Yes. They were delivered just now,' he said with an averted gaze, because O'Hare had just realised that due to his often inconvenient lack of height, his boss's crotch area was rightat eye level. He flushed a little, embarrassed. But the Onceler showed no signs of moving.

There was a silence, broken only by the shuffling of O'Hare's shoes against the thick rug fibres as he stood awkwardly at the side of the desk. He removed his glasses from his face and cleaned the lenses on his shirt, then settled them back onto his nose. The Onceler's trousers were starting to give in to gravity, slipping earthwards and revealing green socks and a pair of impeccably shiny leather shoes.

The flash of colour at Onceler's feet caught the secretary's eye, and his gaze locked onto those magnificent long legs, so narrow and slender and smooth and everything that O'Hare's short form _wasn't. _He longed to touch them. The dark fabric of the trousers wrapped so beautifully around the man's thighs – well, the entirety of the famous emerald suit fit perfectly; it was bespoke, of course. O'Hare's eyes bored into the fabric, down, down... until he was right back where he started.

'I'm not paying you to stand around and gawp at things, O'Hare, no matter how appealing you might find them.'

'No, sor-' O'Hare stopped suddenly on account of fully realising what the other man had just said. Ducking his head, he began frantically willing the blood away from his cheeks. He blushed far too often in the presence of this man.

The Onceler's upside down mouth smiled. It looked odd to O'Hare.

'Light me a cigar.'

O'Hare reached out for the box on the table.

'….please.'

A small part of the secretary lit up and glowed at the rare gem. What he'd ever done that was so spectacular to warrant politeness from his boss, he had no idea; but the Onceler seemed to think it was due to him, so he wasn't about to protest.

Obtaining one of the fat tobacco sticks, O'Hare grabbed the lighter lying conveniently on top of a pile of papers on the desk, and fumbled with it until the cigar had a fully functioning lit cherry. He looked from it to the Onceler, wondering if the man was going to sit upright any time soon.

A green gloved finger rose to an upside down grin, and the Onceler patted his lips as a voiceless instruction. Trying not to show his internal giddiness, O'Hare approached the other slowly.

Tufts of thick black fringe dangled floorwards, and the younger man was not surprised to see that the Onceler looked even more handsome with his forehead exposed. Somehow, his dark glasses had not shifted in position; so as usual, O'Hare had no idea what lay in wait in the other's eyes. O'Hare looked down at the perfect, magnificent specimen of a businessman and felt such an _urge_...

Noticing he'd gradually bent over and was a little_ too _close to his boss, he straightened up quickly and with a shaking hand raised the cigar to the other's mouth. The lips parted in expectation, a glistening pink tongue barely visible behind white teeth. O'Hare unconsciously opened his own mouth, his heart thumping in his chest so loudly he was certain the Onceler could hear it. He felt cool breath on his fingertips as he placed it gently between soft lips, uncertain of whether or not the Onceler had meant for his tongue to gently graze O'Hare's index finger. Either way, it sent a shiver down his spine and a jolt to his crotch.

He backed away quickly, regaining his position at the front of the office desk, clenching his fists and forcing his breathing rate to slow. He ran the back of his hand hastily across his forehead, collecting and removing the beads of sweat before they could be seen. His mouth was dry.

O'Hare hadn't noticed, but the Onceler was now the right way up and pulling the long rolls of blueprints closer towards himself on the desk. Without looking up, he manoeuvred the cigar to the side of his mouth and said thickly, 'Thank you, O'Hare. You've followed my instructions so well, I may ask you to do something... more complex in the future.'

O'Hare felt euphoria and terror simultaneously strike his heart. He excused himself, and left, failing to notice Onceler watching him with a devious smirk curling his lip.


	2. Chapter 2

One of O'Hare's many duties working as secretary to The Onceler was that every evening he would have to deliver the day's report to his boss, by phone or forwarded email; or very occasionally, face to face. The secretary could not see why the man had to find out the exact statistics of the sales, profits and tax revenues _every single day_, but he knew better than to ask.

Although, perhaps the Onceler just liked to keep on top of things, to know precisely what was happening to his company. If O'Hare looked at it that way... well, it was just another exceptionally brilliant trait of the Onceler's for him to idolise and strain to adopt.

Right on the dot of 8:58 that morning, the double doors at the end of the corridor had been flung open, and the businessman himself had stalked to the end of the narrow hallway. He'd been on his way to a board meeting, O'Hare had guessed.

He hadn't even given his most dedicated employee a quick glance -not that O'Hare had expected him to. It was only when they were in his office, alone; or in public when he couldn't avoid it; that the Onceler spent time on the young secretary.

It puzzled O'Hare, but he tried not to mind it.

Either the meeting had taken up more of the day than usual, or his boss had gone forth from it to perform other necessary actions; but it was past six o' clock when Onceler returned. The secretary quickly lowered his eyes back to his desk. He quickly picked up a pen and pretended to read, moving the nib underneath the lines of text for added credibility.

Without warning, gloved fingertips suddenly appeared on the front of the desk with a loud tapping noise, and his attention was immediately struck towards them.

'O'Hare, my office. Now.'

There was a split second in which the younger man's stomach lurched sickeningly.

'Bring my report.'

O'Hare's chubby fingers quickly dropped the pen and started scrambling for the clipboard he'd set aside earlier, breathing a quiet sigh of relief that he was wanted in the danger zone only for the sake of routine, not because he was in trouble. However, depending on his boss's mood and how things turned out, he might find himself heading for trouble anyway. One could never really tell with the CEO of Thneed Inc.

Locating the correct file, O'Hare hurried after the Onceler. Although when he caught up to him, he was unsure of where to stand. Should he follow him directly behind? -no, _definitely_ not; that would be acting too much like a personal lapdog... but he could hardly walk _beside_ the man; that would be _too_ much of an invasion of his boss's privacy, and he would be overstepping the mark in not keeping to his place - why would the immensely powerful and respected Onceler want a man of stunted growth trotting beside him, embarrassing him with having to take three steps for every one of the businessman's confident stride?

In the time it took for O'Hare's mind to fidget around the subject of exactly how he should follow, the Onceler had reached the door to his office, and O'Hare had to snap out of his worries sharpish to avoid walking straight into the taller man.

It must have been the two door guards' day off, presumed O'Hare, promptly realising that he hadn't seen the pair of - in his opinion - dim-witted security for the entire day.

It was because they were absent that Onceler held open the door for the younger man to enter by; and it was because O'Hare's brain was still frazzled over his most recent predicament and the strange endorphins that currently hindered his mind that he didn't realise he had walked right on through into the room without acknowledging the somewhat gentlemanly action.

He looked up at the Onceler guiltily, head quickly pivoting on his neck; he felt it crick painfully. 'T-thank you, Sir,' he blurted, trying to contain his stuttering.

Onceler simply let go of the door and let it swing shut behind him, causing a blast of air to whip up his coat tails a little as he continued to the circular desk in the centre of the spacious room. O'Hare edged closer to the desk himself, fretting silently over if the man's silence meant that he'd offended him.

The Onceler was unbuttoning his coat as he walked, but O'Hare couldn't see this from his position, so the secretary was not expecting the narrow shoulders to suddenly tilt and bunch together as the garment was shrugged off and slung over a waiting forearm. Then, the deft fingers loosened and tore away the questionably tasteful tie; and finally, the formidable top hat was swept from his hair and settled on top of the desk as the businessman sat down behind it.

He figured that since it was, after all, the _Onceler's _office in the _Onceler's _building, he had the designated liberty to unwind at the end of the day; to rid himself of any restricting clothing, if that's the way things were. But O'Hare was still thankful that he'd finally reached his destination, as it meant that probably no more clothing would be removed. However, a small part of him wished wistfully that the man would continue, even though the effects would be disastrous. The secretary could not confirm to himself that he would be able to retain consciousness.

O'Hare decided that it was time to speak up and break the silence that was making him, at least, a tad uneasy. 'Has it been a productive day for you, Mr Onceler?' There was a tone of care and concern to the words, making them sound like more than just an ice breaker.

The recipient of the question heaved a long sigh. 'No,' he said, leaning back into his chair and crossing his legs, looking the younger man full in the face as he confessed. 'No, it has not. It has been... _they_ have been... infuriating.' The last word was spat like venom, and accompanied by a slight twitch of muscles as his eyes narrowed behind his glasses.

Then the Onceler flinched a little, as if being caught up short. He coughed. 'Not that _you_ should... why are you even aski-' Stopping abruptly, he averted his eyes. 'Read out the sales profits.'

And O'Hare proceeded to, dismissing his nagging confusion. His boss was more than likely extremely tired, which would be causing him to mix up his words. But the Onceler was always tired – due to working from the crack of dawn to the dead of night every day – and O'Hare couldn't remember ever hearing him falter before. He was always so precise, so _exact._

He finished reading, and glanced up over the top of his glasses to observe the other's reaction to the figures. Onceler raked a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed in thought. The silky dark strands tumbled in and around the gaps between his fingers, even down at the far nape of his neck. O'Hare found himself gripping his papers more tightly than before as he watched, longing intensely to perform the same action with his own hands; to have his nerves enveloped by the combined softness of shining hair and creamy skin.

O'Hare swallowed and forced his gaze to the floor.

'Something wrong, O'Hare?'

The Onceler's voice was back to normal; smooth, without a single hitch; and confident, as if nothing he could ever say would be wrong. It somehow induced both boldness, and a sense of inferiority in people.

'I... no, Sir. Would you like me to read the rest?' His arms clutched his file to his chest, like a shield.

The businessman leaned forward from his recline, pulling his glasses from his face by one of the lens frames. His eyes were closed as he used the other hand to rub the bridge of his nose with index and thumb; O'Hare could see a small red mark there.

'No thank you, O'Hare. Just leave them on my desk and I'll have a look myself,' said Onceler, his eyes snapping back open.

And O'Hare stared at him unabashedly, because somehow in his six months of working for the businessman, he'd missed the vivid blue eyes that were consuming his every thought.

It may have had something to do with the fact that this was the first time the secretary had seen the man without glasses.

The eyes in question were unimaginably blue, and pale and piercing, like cut crystal; and an innocently round shape; and framed by slim, almost feminine eyebrows and long, dark eyelashes. Within them lurked youthfulness and sparkling intelligence – plus naivety and optimism - and O'Hare suddenly knew why the man never appeared without shaded glasses to hide his least intimidating physical aspect. Faint lines indented the delicate skin underneath them; shadows of mental and physical tiredness.

In the middle of replacing the flamboyant eye wear to his face, Onceler froze, realising that the young man stood opposite was gazing at him, glassy eyed, with a look of utter rapture commandeering his face.

Caught out, O'Hare's wide eyes darted to the floor in shame as he mentally uttered all of the curse words available to him. The image of his boss looking entirely freaked out and slightly repulsed would not fade from his mind; and self-resentment swept through him in rapid waves, making his short form quiver uncontrollably.

Slender, gloved fingers slowly and deliberately folded the arms of the glasses, and set them down on the table with a slight 'tap'.

'O'Hare, I have a favour to ask of you.'

And although he'd rather jump into a pit filled with ravenous carnivorous beasts than show the man his reddened and sweating face, the secretary raised his head. A piercing blue stare shot through the young man and immobilised him; making him barely able to force his tongue to fumble the question of 'Yes, Sir?'.

Onceler smirked at the confirmation of the exact effect the unveiling of the rest of his face had had upon O'Hare. 'The young woman that works in finance, on the second floor. By the name of Susan... Susan Mc-something.' A green hand flapped dismissively. 'I'm sure you'll be able to find her. Anyway, I have reason to suspect she's 'up-to-no-good'.'

'My... sources have informed me of her previous bouts of embezzling money, a fact that she obviously must have forgotten to say in her employment interview.' Onceler furrowed his brow, before getting to his feet hastily. He clasped gloved hands together in an extremely business-like manner, elbows bent at exactly ninety degrees, and began to stride unhurriedly around his desk to where O'Hare was stood trembling.

'O'Hare, I would like for you to, for lack of another phrase, 'keep an eye' on her. I can't risk my company suffering for the sake of one insignificant girl, so she will have to be... dealt with.' Green fingers instinctively reached towards the bug-eyed glasses that lay invitingly on the desk, but then recoiled as if they'd thought better of it.

Light footfalls continued to advance on the secretary, who reached to his own neck with chubby fingers and tugged at his shirt collar nervously. Onceler was almost at his side now, and continued to speak in that steady, controlled, hypnotising voice. 'Watch her. Find out about her. See if you can find any evidence of foul-play- in fact, come to me if you even have any _suspicions _of abnormal behaviour on her part.'

O'Hare peeked out of the corner of his eyelashes to see familiar pinstriped-covered thighs had paused by his shoulder due to Onceler having reached his destination. Wide eyes watched as a velvet covered hand in his peripheral vision cut gracefully through the air, and nimble fingers tucked themselves underneath his chin and pulled his head upwards, and all he could see was green-green-green-_blue..._

'You'll do that for me, won't you, O'Hare?'

And the secretary looked up into the gently smiling, flawlessly handsome face of his employer and blurted out the simple confirmation of 'yes' so quickly it didn't sound like English, because however unappealing the task sounded he _wanted_ to do it; he wanted to make his boss _pleased_ with him, because when Onceler was happy with his efforts it was better than anything in the world, and O'Hare often received small rewards - little acknowledgements of his petty sucesses...

The fingers were subtly moving now, brushing the luxuriously soft material against the tender flesh on the underside of his chin. 'I knew I could count on you, O'Hare,' were the words that glowed in the secretary's mind as he watched the full lips form his name, glistening from talking so much, parting in a perfect 'o' shape and ending the compliment with an upwards curve.

The taller man had bent at the waist as he'd spoken, and consequently, the Onceler's nose was only mere inches away from touching his own. Oh, how the younger man longed to close the unendurably small distance between them; to forget his fantasies and finally, actually feel those _perfect_ lips upon his own, the soft cheek pressing against his skin, to entwine his fingers in the shining, immaculate hair...

Speaking of which, there had somehow appeared nimble fingers in O'Hare's own hair, sifting through the thin strands almost tenderly, and the secretary's eyelids flickered as he fought not to pass out; the mesmerising clear blue gaze the only thing keeping his eyes open. He could feel his body temperature increasing, and hoped furiously that Onceler's fingers wouldn't meet with a stray bead of sweat on his clammy forehead.

O'Hare's own unattractive, pudgy hands clenched at his sides as he tried not to let the moan escape that was threatening to burst out of his mouth, because now the Onceler's other fingertips had trailed slowly from his neck to his cheek, and were now tracing the line of his bottom lip, pulling on it slightly and revealing a glint of the metal strips on his teeth. Endorphins were boiling in his bloodstream and clouding his mind, but there was a brief moment in which he felt vaguely disgusted with himself for his heavy breathing – the Onceler would surely not want such an inferior's saliva tainting the fibres of his luxurious gloves.

And, by judging how close his boss was standing to him, the powerful tycoon would _definitely_ not want the nudging of a pathetically small boner against his knee.

A jolt of terror shocked through O'Hare, making him practically leap backwards, away from the dangerously seducing actions of the taller man. 'T-thank you, Mr Onceler, Sir,' he stuttered, knowing it was not his place to dismiss himself but doing so anyway. 'I- I'll be sure to do my best to... um, meet your requirements-'

Brown eyes darted from the floor to the businessman's upper torso and back to the ground again, because the secretary should have been respectfully meeting the other's gaze whilst speaking but was actually trying to look anywhere but those inebriating eyes.

O'Hare continued to shuffle backwards and mumble his half-formed sentences, vaguely aware of his boss straightening up and drawing to his full height. '-second floor, finance, right... okay-'

'You may go, O'Hare. And next time we meet, make sure to bring me information on the... ah, _subject._' Onceler turned, heading back towards his seat. 'Now, go take care of yourself.'

O'Hare momentarily froze halfway through the doorway that led to the safety of his desk, not missing the hidden meaning in his boss's command. But he didn't dare look back to see if the innuendo had been purposely uttered; only closed the door gently and fled, the ceiling cameras swivelling to follow his rushed progress down the narrow corridor.


End file.
